Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1610 [c.1610-1611] (Annals) romance · King's Men T47 Knaves, thieves and bawds typicality 0.85 · 460 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
Vices I would say (Sir.) I know this man well, he hath been since an Ape-bearer, than a Processe-seruer (a Bailiff) than he compassed a Motion of the Prodigal son, and married a Tinker's wife, within a Mile where my Land and Living lies; and (having flown over many knavish professions) he settled only in Rogue: some call him Autolicus. Out upon him: Prig, for my life Prig: he haunts Wakes, Fairs, and Bear-baitings. Very true sir: he sir he: that's the Rogue that put me into this apparel. Not a more cowardly Rogue in all Bohemia; If you had but looked big, and spit at him, he'd have run. I must confess to you (sir) I am no fighter: I am false of heart that way, & that he knew I warrant him. How do you now? Sweet sir, much better than I was: I can stand, and walk: I will even take my leave of you, & pace softly towards my Kinsman's. Shall I bring thee on the way? No, good faced sir, no sweet sir. Then fartheewell, I must go buy Spices for our sheepshearing. Prosper you sweet sir. Your purse is not hot enough to purchase your Spice: I'll be with you at your sheepshearing too: If I make not this Cheat bring out another, and the sheerers prove sheep, let me be unrold, and my name put in the book of Virtue. Iog-on, Iog-on, the footpath way, And merrily hent the Stile: A merry heart goes all the day, Your sad tires in a Mile-a. These your unusual weeds, to each part of you Does give a life: no Shepherdess, but Flora Peering in April's front. This your sheepshearing, Is as a meeting of the petty Gods, And you the Queen on't. Sir: my gracious Lord, To chide at your extremes, it not becomes me: (Oh pardon, that I name them:) your high self The gracious mark o' th' Land, you have obscured With a Swains wearing: and me (poor lowly Maid) Most Goddese-like pranked up: But that our Feasts In every Mess, have folly; and the Feeders Digest with a Custom, I should blush To see you so attired: sworn I think, To show myself a glass. I bless the time, When my good Falcon, made her flight across Thy Father's ground Now Ioue afford you cause: To me the difference forges dread (your Greatness Hath not been used to fear:) even now I tremble To think your Father, by some accident Should pass this way, as you did: Oh the Pates, How would he look, to see his work, so noble, Vildly bound up? What would he say? Or how Should I (in these my borrowed Flaunts) behold The sternness of his presence?
nodes 1536–1577 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 27 of 50 in this edition
Length
460 words · 651 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T47 — Knaves, thieves and bawdscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.850 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T46 · seed 44: T41 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Vices I would ſay (Sir.) I know this man well, he hath bene ſince an Ape-bearer, then a Proceſſe-ſeruer (a Bayliffe) then hee compaſt a Motion of the Prodigall ſonne, and married a Tinkers wife, within a Mile where my Land and Liuing lyes; and (hauing flowne ouer many knauiſh profeſſions) he ſetled onely in Rogue: ſome call him Autolicus. Out vpon him: Prig, for my life Prig: he haunts Wakes, Faires, and Beare-baitings. Very true ſir: he ſir hee: that's the Rogue that put me into this apparrell. Not a more cowardly Rogue in all Bohemia; If you had but look'd bigge, and ſpit at him, hee'ld haue runne. I muſt confeſſe to you (ſir) I am no fighter: I am falſe of heart that way, & that he knew I warrant him. How do you now? Sweet ſir, much better then I was: I can ſtand, and walke: I will euen take my leaue of you, & pace ſoftly towards my Kinſmans. Shall I bring thee on the way? No, good fac'd ſir, no ſweet ſir. Then fartheewell, I muſt go buy Spices for our ſheepe-ſhearing. Proſper you ſweet ſir. Your purſe is not hot enough to purchaſe your Spice: Ile be with you at your ſheepe-ſhearing too: If I make not this Cheat bring out another, and the ſheerers proue ſheepe, let me be vnrold, and my name put in the booke of Vertue. Iog-on, Iog-on, the foot-path way, And merrily hent the Stile-a: A merry heart goes all the day, Your ſad tyres in a Mile-a. Theſe your vnvſuall weeds, to each part of you Do's giue a life: no Shepherdeſſe, but Flora Peering in Aprils front. This your ſheepe-ſhearing, Is as a meeting of the petty Gods, And you the Queene on't. Sir: my gracious Lord, To chide at your extreames, it not becomes me: (Oh pardon, that I name them:) your high ſelfe The gracious marke o' th' Land, you haue obſcur'd With a Swaines wearing: and me (poore lowly Maide) Moſt Goddeſe-like prank'd vp: But that our Feaſts In euery Meſſe, haue folly; and the Feeders Digeſt with a Cuſtome, I ſhould bluſh To ſee you ſo attyr'd: ſworne I thinke, To ſhew my ſelfe a glaſſe. I bleſſe the time, When my good Falcon, made her flight a-croſſe Thy Fathers ground Now Ioue affoord you cauſe: To me the difference forges dread (your Greatneſſe Hath not beene vs'd to feare:) euen now I tremble To thinke your Father, by ſome accident Should paſſe this way, as you did: Oh the Pates, How would he looke, to ſee his worke, ſo noble, Vildely bound vp? What would he ſay? Or how Should I (in theſe my borrowed Flaunts) behold The ſternneſſe of his preſence?